Jack London - The Iron Heel - Excerpt
First published by Macmillan - 1908
http://www.jacklondons.net/writings/IronHeel/toc.html

...I shall try to write simply and to tell here how Ernest Everhard
entered my life--how I first met him, how he grew until I became a
part of him, and the tremendous changes he wrought in my life. In this
way may you look at him through my eyes and learn him as I learned
him--in all save the things too secret and sweet for me to tell.

It was in February, 1912, that I first met him, when, as a guest of my
father's at dinner, he came to our house in Berkeley. I cannot say
that my very first impression of him was favorable. He was one of many
at dinner, and in the drawing-room where we gathered and waited for
all to arrive, he made a rather incongruous appearance. It was
`preacher's night,' as my father privately called it, and Ernest was
certainly out of place in the midst of the churchmen...

...In the interest of meeting the other guests, and what of my
unfavorable impression, I forgot all about the working-class
philosopher, though once or twice at table I noticed him--especially
the twinkle in his eye as he listened to the talk first of one
minister and then of another. He has humor, I thought, and I almost
forgave him his clothes. But the time went by, and the dinner went by,
and he never opened his mouth to speak, while the ministers talked
interminably about the working class and its relation to the church,
and what the church had done and was doing for it. I noticed that my
father was annoyed because Ernest did not talk. Once father took
advantage of a lull and asked him to say something; but Ernest
shrugged his shoulders and with an `I have nothing to say' went on
eating salted almonds.

But father was not to be denied. After a while he said:

`We have with us a member of the working class. I am sure that he can
present things from a new point of view that will be interesting and
refreshing. I refer to Mr. Everhard.'

The others betrayed a well-mannered interest, and urged Ernest for a
statement of his views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly
tolerant and kindly that it was really patronizing. And I saw that
Ernest noted it and was amused. He looked slowly about him, and I saw
the glint of laughter in his eyes.

`I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy,' he
began, and then hesitated with modesty and indecision.

`Go on,' they urged, and Dr. Hammerfield said: `We do not mind the
truth that is in any man. If it is sincere,' he amended.

`Then you separate sincerity from truth?' Ernest laughed quickly.

Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, `The best of us may be
mistaken, young man, the best of us.'

Ernest's manner changed on the instant. He became another man.

`All right, then,' he answered; `and let me begin by saying that you
are all mistaken. You know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the
working class. Your sociology is as vicious and worthless as is your
method of thinking.'

It was not so much what he said as how he said it. I roused at the
first sound of his voice. It was as bold as his eyes. It was a clarion-
call that thrilled me. And the whole table was aroused, shaken alive
from monotony and drowsiness.

`What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of
thinking, young man?' Dr. Hammerfield demanded, and already there was
something unpleasant in his voice and manner of utterance.

`You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics; and
having done so, every metaphysician can prove every other
metaphysician wrong--to his own satisfaction. You are anarchists in
the realm of thought. And you are mad cosmos-makers. Each of you
dwells in a cosmos of his own making, created out of his own fancies
and desires. You do not know the real world in which you live, and
your thinking has no place in the real world except in so far as it is
phenomena of mental aberration.

`Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to
you talk and talk? You reminded me for all the world of the
scholastics of the Middle Ages who gravely and learnedly debated the
absorbing question of how many angels could dance on the point of a
needle. Why, my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual
life of the twentieth century as an Indian medicine-man making
incantation in the primeval forest ten thousand years ago.'

As Ernest talked he seemed in a fine passion; his face glowed, his
eyes snapped and flashed, and his chin and jaw were eloquent with
aggressiveness. But it was only a way he had. It always aroused
people. His smashing, sledge-hammer manner of attack invariably made
them forget themselves. And they were forgetting themselves now.
Bishop Morehouse was leaning forward and listening intently.
Exasperation and anger were flushing the face of Dr. Hammerfield. And
others were exasperated, too, and some were smiling in an amused and
superior way. As for myself, I found it most enjoyable. I glanced at
father, and I was afraid he was going to giggle at the effect of this
human bombshell he had been guilty of launching amongst us.

`Your terms are rather vague,' Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. `Just
precisely what do you mean when you call us metaphysicians?'

`I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically,' Ernest
went on. `Your method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science.
There is no validity to your conclusions. You can prove everything and
nothing, and no two of you can agree upon anything. Each of you goes
into his own consciousness to explain himself and the universe. As
well may you lift yourselves by your own bootstraps as to explain
consciousness by consciousness.'

`I do not understand,' Bishop Morehouse said. `It seems to me that all
things of the mind are metaphysical. That most exact and convincing of
all sciences, mathematics, is sheerly metaphysical. Each and every
thought-process of the scientific reasoner is metaphysical. Surely you
will agree with me?'

`As you say, you do not understand,' Ernest replied. `The
metaphysician reasons deductively out of his own subjectivity. The
scientist reasons inductively from the facts of experience. The
metaphysician reasons from theory to facts, the scientist reasons from
facts to theory. The metaphysician explains the universe by himself,
the scientist explains himself by the universe.'

`Thank God we are not scientists,' Dr. Hammerfield murmured
complacently.

`What are you then?' Ernest demanded.

`Philosophers.'

`There you go,' Ernest laughed. `You have left the real and solid
earth and are up in the air with a word for a flying machine. Pray
come down to earth and tell me precisely what you do mean by
philosophy.'

`Philosophy is--' (Dr. Hammerfield paused and cleared his throat)
`something that cannot be defined comprehensively except to such minds
and temperaments as are philosophical. The narrow scientist with his
nose in a test-tube cannot understand philosophy.'

Ernest ignored the thrust. It was always his way to turn the point
back upon an opponent, and he did it now, with a beaming brotherliness
of face and utterance.

`Then you will undoubtedly understand the definition I shall now make
of philosophy. But before I make it, I shall challenge you to point
out error in it or to remain a silent metaphysician. Philosophy is
merely the widest science of all. Its reasoning method is the same as
that of any particular science and of all particular sciences. And by
that same method of reasoning, the inductive method, philosophy fuses
all particular sciences into one great science. As Spencer says, the
data of any particular science are partially unified knowledge.
Philosophy unifies the knowledge that is contributed by all the
sciences. Philosophy is the science of science, the master science, if
you please. How do you like my definition?'

`Very creditable, very creditable,' Dr. Hammerfield muttered lamely.

But Ernest was merciless.

`Remember,' he warned, `my definition is fatal to metaphysics. If you
do not now point out a flaw in my definition, you are disqualified
later on from advancing metaphysical arguments. You must go through
life seeking that flaw and remaining metaphysically silent until you
have found it.'

Ernest waited. The silence was painful. Dr. Hammerfield was pained. He
was also puzzled. Ernest's sledge-hammer attack disconcerted him. He
was not used to the simple and direct method of controversy. He looked
appealingly around the table, but no one answered for him. I caught
father grinning into his napkin.

`There is another way of disqualifying the metaphysicians,' Ernest
said, when he had rendered Dr. Hammerfield's discomfiture complete.
`Judge them by their works. What have they done for mankind beyond the
spinning of airy fancies and the mistaking of their own shadows for
gods? They have added to the gayety of mankind, I grant; but what
tangible good have they wrought for mankind? They philosophized, if
you will pardon my misuse of the word, about the heart as the seat of
the emotions, while the scientists were formulating the circulation of
the blood. They declaimed about famine and pestilence as being
scourges of God, while the scientists were building granaries and
draining cities. They builded gods in their own shapes and out of
their own desires, while the scientists were building roads and
bridges. They were describing the earth as the centre of the universe,
while the scientists were discovering America and probing space for
the stars and the laws of the stars. In short, the metaphysicians have
done nothing, absolutely nothing, for mankind. Step by step, before
the advance of science, they have been driven back. As fast as the
ascertained facts of science have overthrown their subjective
explanations of things, they have made new subjective explanations of
things, including explanations of the latest ascertained facts. And
this, I doubt not, they will go on doing to the end of time.
Gentlemen, a metaphysician is a medicine man. The difference between
you and the Eskimo who makes a fur-clad blubber-eating god is merely a
difference of several thousand years of ascertained facts. That is
all.'

`Yet the thought of Aristotle ruled Europe for twelve centuries,' Dr.
Ballingford announced pompously. `And Aristotle was a metaphysician.'

Dr. Ballingford glanced around the table and was rewarded by nods and
smiles of approval.

`Your illustration is most unfortunate,' Ernest replied. `You refer to
a very dark period in human history. In fact, we call that period the
Dark Ages. A period wherein science was raped by the metaphysicians,
wherein physics became a search for the Philosopher's Stone, wherein
chemistry became alchemy, and astronomy became astrology. Sorry the
domination of Aristotle's thought!'

Dr. Ballingford looked pained, then he brightened up and said:

`Granted this horrible picture you have drawn, yet you must confess
that metaphysics was inherently potent in so far as it drew humanity
out of this dark period and on into the illumination of the succeeding
centuries.'

`Metaphysics had nothing to do with it,' Ernest retorted.

`What?' Dr. Hammerfield cried. `It was not the thinking and the
speculation that led to the voyages of discovery?'

`Ah, my dear sir,' Ernest smiled, `I thought you were disqualified.
You have not yet picked out the flaw in my definition of philosophy.
You are now on an unsubstantial basis. But it is the way of the
metaphysicians, and I forgive you. No, I repeat, metaphysics had
nothing to do with it. Bread and butter, silks and jewels, dollars and
cents, and, incidentally, the closing up of the overland trade-routes
to India, were the things that caused the voyages of discovery. With
the fall of Constantinople, in 1453, the Turks blocked the way of the
caravans to India. The traders of Europe had to find another route.
Here was the original cause for the voyages of discovery. Columbus
sailed to find a new route to the Indies. It is so stated in all the
history books. Incidentally, new facts were learned about the nature,
size, and form of the earth, and the Ptolemaic system went
glimmering.'

Dr. Hammerfield snorted.

`You do not agree with me?' Ernest queried. `Then wherein am I wrong?'

`I can only reaffirm my position,' Dr. Hammerfield retorted tartly.
`It is too long a story to enter into now.'

`No story is too long for the scientist,' Ernest said sweetly. `That
is why the scientist gets to places. That is why he got to America.'

I shall not describe the whole evening, though it is a joy to me to
recall every moment, every detail, of those first hours of my coming
to know Ernest Everhard.

Battle royal raged, and the ministers grew red-faced and excited,
especially at the moments when Ernest called them romantic
philosophers, shadow-projectors, and similar things. And always he
checked them back to facts. `The fact, man, the irrefragable fact!' he
would proclaim triumphantly, when he had brought one of them a
cropper. He bristled with facts. He tripped them up with facts,
ambuscaded them with facts, bombarded them with broadsides of facts.

`You seem to worship at the shrine of fact,' Dr. Hammerfield taunted
him.

`There is no God but Fact, and Mr. Everhard is its prophet,' Dr.
Ballingford paraphrased.

Ernest smilingly acquiesced.

`I'm like the man from Texas,' he said. And, on being solicited, he
explained. `You see, the man from Missouri always says, `You've got to
show me.' But the man from Texas says, `You've got to put it in my
hand.' From which it is apparent that he is no metaphysician.'

Another time, when Ernest had just said that the metaphysical
philosophers could never stand the test of truth, Dr. Hammerfield
suddenly demanded:

`What is the test of truth, young man? Will you kindly explain what
has so long puzzled wiser heads than yours?'

`Certainly,' Ernest answered. His cocksureness irritated them. `The
wise heads have puzzled so sorely over truth because they went up into
the air after it. Had they remained on the solid earth, they would
have found it easily enough--ay, they would have found that they
themselves were precisely testing truth with every practical act and
thought of their lives.'

`The test, the test,' Dr. Hammerfield repeated impatiently. `Never
mind the preamble. Give us that which we have sought so long--the test
of truth. Give it us, and we will be as gods.'

There was an impolite and sneering scepticism in his words and manner
that secretly pleased most of them at the table, though it seemed to
bother Bishop Morehouse.

`Dr. Jordan9 has stated it very clearly,' Ernest said. `His test of
truth is: "Will it work? Will you trust your life to it?"'

`Pish!' Dr. Hammerfield sneered. `You have not taken Bishop Berkeley10
into account. He has never been answered.'

`The noblest metaphysician of them all,' Ernest laughed. `But your
example is unfortunate. As Berkeley himself attested, his metaphysics
didn't work.'

Dr. Hammerfield was angry, righteously angry. It was as though he had
caught Ernest in a theft or a lie.

`Young man,' he trumpeted, `that statement is on a par with all you
have uttered to-night. It is a base and unwarranted assumption.'

`I am quite crushed,' Ernest murmured meekly. `Only I don't know what
hit me. You'll have to put it in my hand, Doctor.'

`I will, I will,' Dr. Hammerfield spluttered. `How do you know? You do
not know that Bishop Berkeley attested that his metaphysics did not
work. You have no proof. Young man, they have always worked.'

`I take it as proof that Berkeley's metaphysics did not work,
because--' Ernest paused calmly for a moment. `Because Berkeley made
an invariable practice of going through doors instead of walls.
Because he trusted his life to solid bread and butter and roast beef.
Because he shaved himself with a razor that worked when it removed the
hair from his face.'

`But those are actual things!' Dr. Hammerfield cried. `Metaphysics is
of the mind.'

`And they work--in the mind?' Ernest queried softly.

The other nodded.

`And even a multitude of angels can dance on the point of a needle--in
the mind,' Ernest went on reflectively. `And a blubber-eating, fur-
clad god can exist and work--in the mind; and there are no proofs to
the contrary--in the mind. I suppose, Doctor, you live in the mind?'

`My mind to me a kingdom is,' was the answer.

`That's another way of saying that you live up in the air. But you
come back to earth at meal-time, I am sure, or when an earthquake
happens along. Or, tell me, Doctor, do you have no apprehension in an
earthquake that that incorporeal body of yours will be hit by an
immaterial brick?'

Instantly, and quite unconsciously, Dr. Hammerfield's hand shot up to
his head, where a scar disappeared under the hair. It happened that
Ernest had blundered on an apposite illustration. Dr. Hammerfield had
been nearly killed in the Great Earthquake11 by a falling chimney.
Everybody broke out into roars of laughter.

`Well?' Ernest asked, when the merriment had subsided. `Proofs to the
contrary?'

And in the silence he asked again, `Well?' Then he added, `Still well,
but not so well, that argument of yours.'

But Dr. Hammerfield was temporarily crushed, and the battle raged on
in new directions. On point after point, Ernest challenged the
ministers. When they affirmed that they knew the working class, he
told them fundamental truths about the working class that they did not
know, and challenged them for disproofs. He gave them facts, always
facts, checked their excursions into the air, and brought them back to
the solid earth and its facts.

How the scene comes back to me! I can hear him now, with that war-note
in his voice, flaying them with his facts, each fact a lash that stung
and stung again. And he was merciless. He took no quarter,12 and gave
none. I can never forget the flaying he gave them at the end:

`You have repeatedly confessed to-night, by direct avowal or ignorant
statement, that you do not know the working class. But you are not to
be blamed for this. How can you know anything about the working class?
You do not live in the same locality with the working class. You herd
with the capitalist class in another locality. And why not? It is the
capitalist class that pays you, that feeds you, that puts the very
clothes on your backs that you are wearing to-night. And in return you
preach to your employers the brands of metaphysics that are especially
acceptable to them; and the especially acceptable brands are
acceptable because they do not menace the established order of
society.'

Here there was a stir of dissent around the table.

`Oh, I am not challenging your sincerity,' Ernest continued. `You are
sincere. You preach what you believe. There lies your strength and
your value--to the capitalist class. But should you change your belief
to something that menaces the established order, your preaching would
be unacceptable to your employers, and you would be discharged. Every
little while some one or another of you is so discharged.13 Am I not
right?'

This time there was no dissent. They sat dumbly acquiescent, with the
exception of Dr. Hammerfield, who said:

`It is when their thinking is wrong that they are asked to resign.'

`Which is another way of saying when their thinking is unacceptable,'
Ernest answered, and then went on. `So I say to you, go ahead and
preach and earn your pay, but for goodness' sake leave the working
class alone. You belong in the enemy's camp. You have nothing in
common with the working class. Your hands are soft with the work
others have performed for you. Your stomachs are round with the
plenitude of eating.' (Here Dr. Ballingford winced, and every eye
glanced at his prodigious girth. It was said he had not seen his own
feet in years.) `And your minds are filled with doctrines that are
buttresses of the established order. You are as much mercenaries
(sincere mercenaries, I grant) as were the men of the Swiss Guard.14
Be true to your salt and your hire; guard, with your preaching, the
interests of your employers; but do not come down to the working class
and serve as false leaders. You cannot honestly be in the two camps at
once. The working class has done without you. Believe me, the working
class will continue to do without you. And, furthermore, the working
class can do better without you than with you.'

Jack London - The Iron Heel - Excerpt
First published by Macmillan - 1908
http://www.jacklondons.net/writings/IronHeel/toc.html